


Shadows

by orphan_account



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:19:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>2005</p>
    </blockquote>





	Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> 2005

He pressed the long neck to his lips and watched. Watched and swilled a mouthful of beer that was too warm, too flat, kinda like this room, this party. After fifteen of these fuckers, he didn't really care. His eyes hadn't left Chris all night. He wouldn't remember the blonde that gave him her number, the guy that asked him about chords and keys and some such as his hand lingered a little too long on the center of his back.

No. He would remember Chris moving among people he really didn't care enough about to recall their names in the morning. He watched, always fucking watched, as Chris schmoozed. Watched the women fall all over him, press their too big tits into his arm, giggle at everything he said, even the stuff that made no fucking sense cause he'd had too much Jack. Watched the guys that would swear they were not gay touch him more times than was strictly necessary, watched Chris lean into that touch real subtle, real soft, dipping his ear toward them as they put their hands on his back, squeezed his bicep.

Knowing one, fuck, more than one of them would be his crutch, disappearing through some door, into some room or some car and they'd fuck and Chris'd remember, or he wouldn't.

Soon to disappear through some door of his own, into his own car with his own blonde, brunette, guy, girl take your fucking pick. To wake the next day face down next to someone who never smelled as good as they did the night before. Awkward showers and coffee and later and yeah. The next town, the next gig, the next party and numbers left on nightstands to be thrown in the trash by staff that wasn’t paid enough to care.

And on the rare, fuck, almost unheard of occasion when he was the crutch? Falling together into a dark room amid laughter and hands that seemed to find just _where_ to touch him. To pull boots and jeans free from skin he wanted to touch so badly it made his fingers ache. Not that he did, not that he ever would.   
To bite down on the insides of his mouth hard enough to tear flesh when hands reached for him, a muttered "I love you man" before Chris would fall back, make that fucking puffed out snore thing and that would be the end of it. Goodnight Steve.

This he played in his head every party, every 'thing' they went to. Deciding, before the tequila fucked with his brain and he didn't care anymore, that he was going to say something, was going to tell him, was going to grow a pair. Sitting back instead on some overstuffed couch again and doing nothing. Drinking his beer and watching, always fucking watching.

~~~~~~~~

His hand pressed maybe a little too firmly in the small of her back. He liked that, the way they pressed their bodies into his, sharing their heat, the need in their eyes. Leaning in to listen, his attention always someplace else. Not that they'd know. He was 'the guy' at the moment. Placed here and there, premieres and this party or that party. Under no illusion, knowing that this was for now and tomorrow? Fuck, might all be gone by then, so taking the beer and the Jack and the guy that dragged him out back and blew his brains out as he smoked some of Steve's real good weed. Hell, they're offering? He’s taking.

Standing now, his eyes across the room as fingers played, as heads nodded, as he watched. As Steve stood back. The tiny blonde that tried to hold his attention. The guys that would want to talk about this key and that chord, when really all they wanted to do was slide their mouths over his cock in some dark corner.

Envious of the way he has no recollection of Halloween. The four day drunk.  
Wishing that there had been enough tequila to take that memory from his brain too. Burned instead, there, on the inside of his eyelids. Tattooed there for him to see every time he fucking blinked, every time he closed his eyes to sleep.

The taste of him lingering all these months there, at the back of his throat, lodged at the base of his spine. Recalled and relived with no notice at the most bizarre times. A smile and a frown crossing his face with each pang of regret that his balls had obviously crawled back up inside his body with no intention of coming down, nope not again. Pussy.

So instead he watches as Steve sits back in some couch and half listens, this time, as he has so many other times before, as he will again no doubt.

Six months and not a word said about it. Blinking over eyes so very fucking dry and there it is again.

_Waking, tangled in half open jeans, a warm arm thrown across his chest, knee pressed into his thigh. Hip to thigh, cock to hip. Palms scrubbing his face and blinking, so much fucking blinking, as the night before fell into place like a stone in his stomach. Hands that this time didn’t, wouldn’t stop. Mouths that spoke of want and need and desire without word, with teeth and tongues and lips that sought so much._

_Head back on the pillow, as the man beside him stirred. “Hey. Passed out. Shit” His head lifted to see where the fuck he was, what the fuck he’d done, to crawl back off the bed with a yawn and a “Showering.” Treating this morning as any other that they’d woken into from falling face down the night before, looking and feeling like shit, to clean up and drink coffee and start all over again._

_Except this time. It wasn’t. Biting back the words and the urge to follow. Hands raking instead through hair sighing ‘fuck’ under his breath_

Six fucking months.

~~~~~

He really did need to move. The warm beer wasn’t getting any cooler and the air around the woman next to him cloyed with some perfume that made his nose twitch. Why the fuck they couldn’t just smell like what they smelled like…He hated all that flowery shit. Soap and shampoo and woman, that’d do. Turn him on quicker than Yves Saint whatever the fuck. Tasted funny too.

Smiling to himself as Chris moved around the room some more. Some guy from the record company next on his list. Not the big guy, you understand, but a guy. No doubt some shit about needing to come in and tweak that, play with this…and Chris will talk to him and do that thing he does and the guy will fuck off and the songs will stay the same. That smile spread to his eyes, creasing his whole face when the guy does just that, nodding intently, licking his lips as Chris speaks, weaves whatever spell it is that has them held right there in the palm of his hand.

Catching his eye as he will do a thousand times tonight, as every other night. That ache in the pit of his gut flaring with a wink and a smile. Watching, yeah, fucking watching as he moves on to the next. Predatory gleam only thinly veiled.

~~~~~~

Thinking to himself that maybe all the record company guys need to fuck right off. Remembering the ploy, the play, the moves. The guy, leaving, stage left, happy with what they gave him. Damn straight.

Wanting more than anything a shot and a beer, catching Steve’s eye and getting caught on his way to the bar. _”You remember me, right? Chicago, after the gig…”_ nodding and smiling that smile. The one that got him everything he wanted, along with ‘darlin’ and hands that knew exactly where to press.

But now? He wanted nothing more than to be left alone to drink and laugh and see if he couldn’t find them cajones somewhere and talk to Steve.

It happened. He liked it, he wanted more. This’d been anyone else, he would be there, with them. Well maybe not _there_ cause, you know, _people_ but there would none of _this_. None of the dancing around, skirting the issue. None of the not saying anything because he was too damn scared Steve would tell him no, fuck off, I don’t want you, why would I want  you?  
Eyes sore from smoke and too much cologne, fuck, who fell in that shit? Fingers digging into eyes that only see that night. The need for air, for something other than this noise, forcing him from that room and straight into Steve.

“Fuck, sorry, man….air…” Pushing through screen doors that still squeaked no matter how fucking much you paid for them and into blessed cool air.

A wave of nausea forcing him to sit, put his head between his legs, and chant “not throwing up, not throwing up” probably loud enough for everyone to hear and not really giving a shit.

The creak and bang of the door breaking his thoughts for a second, “I’m fine, fuck off, leave me alone” dying on his lips when a warm hand rests on his back and a glass of water is pressed into his shaking hand.

~~~~~~~~~

His fingers fisting in the back of Chris’ shirt and for that second, absolutely sure and determined as he dragged his friend up off the floor, hauling him up to standing. Hearing that fucking squeaking screen door through ears that registered, 'oh sorry man' before squeak, bang, once more. 

Clear and sure and not giving a goddamn that this moment, that they would remember forever, would be around the room quicker than they could find skin with fingertips, that they could get lips on lips, that they could do that walking, kissing turning thing, that would get them out of the garden and into a car of some description.  
They would, he was absolutely certain, never remember the journey from that house and that hated party, or even who the fuck drove. The need for touch overriding everything, the road, the traffic, the short journey to his house not something that, for that moment, was important...

When you want something for so long, when you’ve waited for what could have been a lifetime, you remember nothing. Curse your brain for forgetting details, the way someone smells, the way they feel under your fingers, the way their mouth parts for your tongue. You forget.

Lost in the overallness of that moment, it becomes everything. Everything becomes that moment. Shaking his head now cause that’s thinking and thinking is not something he should be doing right now.

Falling from the car to hit the door, to push it open _I didn’t lock it?_ To lose clothes and boots and have the briefest, just for the tiniest moment, not really worth thinking about really, _huh, bizarre, it’s Chris and me and huh…_ running through his head as Chris’ hand presses to the small of his back, as Chris’ mouth seeks out his, as Chris’ fist closes around his dick with a growl.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not enough tequila in the world to erase this. Will NOT let Steve forget this as his shoulder hits the wall, as he drags his friend into the bedroom almost by the dick, as their mouths find the other’s again and again and there is no fucking way he is ever gonna let Steve forget _this_. The sum of the last six months since Halloween, since the time that could have been, but never was, coming to this and there will be no fucking way  this, will be lost in a fog of weed and booze.

Wanting this, wanting him, so fucking much and for the merest of moments, almost thinking about stopping, almost thinking about finding out if it’s okay, cause now they are laying on Steve’s bed. Steve has his hands on those places, tangled in his hair. His legs are wrapped around Steve’s hips and his hands are pushing Steve’s ass down. It’s Steve’s cock buried inside him with a pop and burn and why the fuck haven’t they done this before?

~~~~~~

Too, much, all at once and fuck, not nearly enough, feeling deep in his heart, that this is so damn familiar, not knowing why. Shutting Chris up with hard kisses and biting fingers in shoulders that he knows will leave little crescent bruises to match those Chris is pressing into the skin on his ass.

Close and closer, heated skin that’ll never be sated, the want of…he doesn’t know how fucking long, moving his hips, pressing his knees into Chris thighs, moving his mouth, his hands over all that he can find. Sucking in a harsh breath and biting down when the sharp thread of pain from a single nail scores his back.

Details now burned into his brain, behind his eyelids. This would be the vision, the feeling that would wake him in the morning, on every morning. To hold and keep and bite on his lip when he’s pushing his cart around the supermarket.

**This**

 

As Chris’ body closes around his, as breath and heartbeat become one, as hips lose all and stutter and fail and for that moment, for that time, there is no time, not one thing outside this room, hell, nothing but this bed and this man and this fucking moment.

~~~~~

Waking, that cold stone lodged in his belly once more.

Not opening his eyes for fear that this was once again a dream, a dream that as he opened his eyes would become the same nightmare of disappointment and for fuck sake, Chris, get the fuck over it.

Not daring to believe that the warm breath on his shoulder, the skin moving in circles over his thigh is real, taking the longest fucking time to crack the lid of his left eye and peep out, not moving, feigning sleep, well, he fucking hoped he was feigning sleep.

Heart skipping a whole fucking day let alone a beat to find Steve's hand there. Steve's mouth pressed to his shoulder.

"Mornin'. "


End file.
